Sampson Low 1933Jacket artwork by Frank Sheruiin

PAGE ONE
THE only object of running a car nowadays is that it makes you independent of railway time-tables," asserted Peter Vernon dogmatically, as he refilled his pipe and leant back comfortably in the smooth-running Talbot.
"Motoring for pleasure is a contradiction in terms," he persisted. "Either you stick to the main roads and form one of a procession,—bonnet to tail—reaching from Land's End to John-o'-Groats, or else you take to the by-roads and rattle your car to ruins over ruts and pot-holes until it's not worth anyone's while to salvage the remnants."
"I'm always willing to listen to an honest opinion," replied the driver of the Talbot, accelerating discreetly as he saw the long stretch of open road ahead of him. "Opinions nowadays are derived from two sources; one source is the car-owner class,—hogs to a man; the other is the pedestrian class, the back-bone of England, the fellows who get the work done, and who, by reason of their convictions